Picking up the Pieces. Caroline Anderson

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       CHAPTER ONE

      NICK DAVIDSON Was Lonely.

      Not just alone. He was used to that. He’d been alone for years, since he’d conceded defeat over his disastrous marriage.

      Now, for the first time, he was lonely — lonely, and suffering from a severely deflated ego.

      He’d always told himself that if he’d wanted to, if he’d really made the effort, he could get Jennifer back.

      ‘Well, you were wrong, old buddy,’ he muttered.

      He glanced round without interest.

      It was a typical room in a typical hospital residence — clean, the décor uninspired and marred by little patches on the wall where Sellotape had stripped tiny sections of the shiny paint. This paint was a nondescript cream, not dissimilar to the room at the Audley where he had spent the past two months trying to woo Jennifer back.

      He snorted softly.

      Fat chance he had stood. She had got married again on Christmas Eve, to a man for whom Nick had the utmost — if grudging — respect. And Tim, Nick’s son, would live with them.

      That hurt. The rest — watching her standing beside Andrew as they made their vows, seeing the love in her eyes for another man — none of that had hurt him, although he had thought it would. No, only Tim.

      Nick blinked hard and focused his eyes on the that would be his home now for the next few months, until either the post was made permanent or he moved on. His flat was too far away to be of use in this job, and so he had given up his lease, ready anyway for a change of scenery. Perhaps he’d buy a little house if he settled here.

      For now, though, it was home, if that wasn’t too evocative a word for the barren little cell he was standing in. Barren and hot. They were all either too hot or too cold. This one was scorching, and Nick threw open the window.

      It was New Year’s Eve, and bitterly cold, but it hardly seemed to penetrate the emptiness inside him.

      The residence, the teaching block and the old wing of the hospital formed four sides of a square, and in the centre a group of early revellers were singing and dancing round the frozen fountain.

      At this rate, he thought sourly, they’ll be out for the count by eleven o’clock and miss all the jollity.

      He shut the window again to drown out the noise of their singing and threw himself down on the bed.

      The springs growled in protest.

      Nick gave a wry snort. That was all he needed — a bed that would keep him awake all night!

      There were voices in the corridor now, people laughing, someone yelling something about a party.

      But no one was about to invite him, because there was no one who knew him yet. Anyway, he didn’t feel much like celebrating.

      Instead, intending to find the orthopaedic wards and make himself known, he tugged on a jumper, slipped his wallet into the back pocket of his trousers and stepped out into the corridor.

      Something soft and delicately scented hit him square in the chest, and his hands flew up automatically.

      The girl was slim, her shoulders fragile under his hands, her sparkling green-gold eyes framed by a soft mass of gleaming golden curls. She straightened and laughed up at him. ‘Sorry!’ she apologised, and Nick smiled slightly.

      ‘My pleasure.’

      ‘Oh!’ A soft flush coloured her cheeks, and her smile faltered. Then it reappeared, and she continued, slightly breathlessly, ‘I’m Cassie — Cassie Blake. You’re new, aren’t you? I saw you moving in earlier.’

      He nodded. ‘I’m the orthopaedic SR. Name’s Nick Davidson.’